


n'est-ce pas?

by antineutrinos



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Biting, Blood, Death, Gen, Religion, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 06:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12053469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antineutrinos/pseuds/antineutrinos
Summary: "Are you repenting, brother?""Repenting," Smith says. He looks at his hands, looks at the crucifix of Jesus on the wall. Looks at the priest. "I suppose I am."





	n'est-ce pas?

**Author's Note:**

> Vampire AU. This isn't largely unedited so I'm sorry if there's any mistakes. All kudos and comments are appreciated x
> 
> warning for blood, sex and death. just in case.

Smith never was one for churches, really.

Of course, that's easy to say when most religions warn people against vampires and the sorts; why should he enjoy something when it does everything it can to get rid of him?

But now, it's different. Smith never really was one for now, either. Now is just a word, when you've lived for millennia. Now is what the wind whispers as it tears empires to pieces. _Now_ is what the moon sings to the stars, in a desperate plea for something, anything.

There is something odd about sitting in the pews of a church. Smith had waited for the weekly sermon to be over, watching the people file out to the words of 'thanks be to god'. He'd almost expected to be unable to stand on holy ground, or unable to step foot in a temple of the lord. However, there came a sickly satisfaction when he walked into the church, unscathed.

It feels taboo. His kind are not supposed to stand in front of the crucifix. His kind are not supposed to walk up and down the aisles, just to hear the echo of footsteps bounce from stained glass window to stained glass window. His kind are not supposed to be here. His kind are not supposed to _be_.

Now, kneeling in the pew, Smith wonders what mortals _get_ from this. Maybe they enjoy the thought of a higher power, the optimism that comes from believing that everything has a reason. It seems like a last-ditch attempt at something. Anything.

Smith feels, vaguely, out of place. Like he doesn't belong amongst the scriptures, nestled between the confessionary boxes. He supposes he doesn't, but somewhere, there is a longing for it.

"Are you repenting, brother?"

There is a priest standing at the top of the pew. He is dressed in black clothes, the pastor's collar sitting at his neck. Collar is certainly a word for it, Smith thinks. If he were more cynical, he would almost call it a shackle.

The priest himself is old. His hair is greying at the roots, and there is a pair of spectacles perched on his nose. There is a bible in one hand. He looks at Smith, expectantly, openly. Smith looks at him.

At the word 'repenting', Smith cannot rid his mind of the flashing images of himself. Bodies he's drained. Two perfect holes in a perfect neck. A glance in the mirror and a smile, only to reveal teeth temporarily stained red. Blood bleeding onto bed sheets. Blood covering everything. Blood.

He looks at the priest, looks at his hands, looks at the statue of Jesus on the cross hung on the wall. "Repenting," he says, looking down. It feels like the statue can see through him. It feels like it knows what he is, knows what he's done. It feels like it knows him better than he ever could. "I suppose I am."

The priest is silent, momentarily. Smith can hear the blood pumping through his veins. He can hear the blood pumping through the walls of the church. For once, it makes him feel sick.

"The recognition of sin is the beginning of salvation." The priest smiles at him, nods once, and walks down the aisle to the back. Smith stares after him. Soon, the church is quiet again, the sound of the priest's footsteps gone as the door shuts closed after him with a bang.

Smith stands up, starts moving towards the altar. Candles flicker as he moves past them. He tries not to let his shoulder sag. That priest knows nothing of what he is, what he does. Knows nothing.

He trails his fingers over the carved marble of the altar. He doesn't know if he's allowed to touch it- doesn't know 'church etiquette'- but it's smooth, cold, beneath his fingertips. There's a vase of flowers sitting on it, in the centre. Smith can smell the honeysuckle and orange blossom from where he is standing.

He stands still. The church feels heavy around him. Smith can feel the air rushing to replace the lost space whenever he moves. Light filters in through the massive stained glass window above him. For a second, he can see nothing but blinding white light.

-

"Oh, fuck-" Smith's words are nothing more than an engine's splutter. The person writhing beneath him has an answer that's just noise. A girl, this time. He likes the way her hips curves, the way she is soft and pliable.

She reminds Smith of crushed velvet. He traces his fingertips around her belly button, making sure to angle his hips in the way that makes her eyes shut tight.

Smith can feel it, can feel it in the space between her thighs and the noises he's making and the way her skin is pink and raw and flushed beneath his touch.

He leans down, laps at the pools of sweat gathering in the shallows of her collarbones. He runs his tongue over her neck, bites down lightly. She hums. She doesn't understand. She doesn't _understand_.

He bites down, properly this time. She moans, but it turns to something different when his teeth are deep into her neck. Smith pulls away, looks down at her. He can't tell if the faraway look in her eye is terror or pleasure.

He is still rocking his hips, she is still fluttering her eyelashes. She keeps her eyes open when he leans down to kiss her mouth. There is blood smudged across his bottom lip, and when he kisses her, she is left with a smudge of blood, too. Smith smiles, and goes back to her neck.

Her moans are getting louder, higher in pitch. Expletives and swears and words Smith isn't listening to because the combination of her blood and her body are too good, too much, too _now_.

He can feel it. Can feel it in the rub of skin against skin and the pumping of blood filling their ears and the blood smudged across their lips. They are not two. They are one.

When he leaves her, her lips are beginning to turn blue around the edges. There is not a trace of blood on her body. She is not moving on the bed. Smith stands, in the sweaty clothes that feel too constricting, and leaves.

-

Smith thinks about going into a confessional box and confessing every sin he's ever committed, in all his years of life and death. He wonders what the priest would say. He makes it back to the church, eventually.

It still smells of old oak and incense. Much the same as it was the last time. Smith feels different, however.

He stands beneath the statue of the Virgin Mary. She stands tall and proud, swathed in cloaks of white and blue. Her halo hangs above her head and she looks down at him with a smile that seems disappointed. Smith smiles back at her, bares his teeth, to see if she will react. She doesn't.

On the way out, Smith blesses himself with holy water. It burns. It burns _badly_ , but it doesn't stop Smith from dropping some from his finger onto his tongue. It burns a trail from his tongue to his throat. It makes him feel _human_.

After all, Smith never really was one for churches.


End file.
